


Not So Much A Science (As An Educated Guess)

by WindyRein



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dark Stiles, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gerard Argent Dies, Gods, Grief/Mourning, Kate Argent Dies, M/M, Magic-Users, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Past Character Death, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Issues, Stiles Stilinski Saves The Hales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindyRein/pseuds/WindyRein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His whole life is torn to pieces in front of his eyes and he refuses to accept it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Much A Science (As An Educated Guess)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts), [Swedishluck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swedishluck/gifts).



> For Mar for convincing me [a looooooong time ago](http://bxdcubes.tumblr.com/post/95113576814/have-some-time-travel-au-thatll-never-get) that someone might actually want to read this.
> 
> For Mari for being my cheerleader, unknowing butt-kicker and test-audience (and soothing my nerves and unknowingly talking me off the ledge of never posting this even though it was finished).
> 
> I started writing this after the first or second episode of 3B (and reading [Play It Again](http://archiveofourown.org/works/862320/chapters/1652969) like three times in a week) and so this basically ignores everything after that :D and I might have ended up throwing the entirety of season 3 into a blender about half way through writing and irrevocably mixing up everything else as well.
> 
> Also, I subscribe to certain rules of time travel, so don't be surprised by the sucker punch heartbreak near the end.

_He smiled with bloodstained teeth at the leader._

_“You can try to take my pack from me if you think that's possible but you should know I’ve torn apart time for them. You should know there isn’t an Alpha on this continent that can make me submit. You should know I’ve lived in darkness and kept hellhounds as pets. Just **try** and break me.”_

_In the distance there were howls and a roar that rose above them all. Not like the hunters could hear any of it._

_And he grinned with lunacy._

***

He’s standing in a clearing a couple hundred yards _(or is it miles?)_ from the Nemeton _(can feel it, always feel it, at the back of his mind, even with the doors closed, just waiting)_ and around him there’s carnage. Hunters and alphas and packs, oh my. Bodies and body parts and squishy bits made into liquid paste. The vines on his arms are stationary but the wind between them is a hurricane.

Gone. They’re all gone. His family. _His pack._ **_His heartanchorhaven._**

He breaks down in hysterical laughter for minutes _(hours, decades, doesn’t matter)._

When he pulls himself together there’s steel in his eyes and power in his soul _(where else would it have gone with all those alphas and his pack dead around him?)._ He’s going to fix this no matter what.

But first, there needs to be a funeral.

_(he thinks he feels something crack but he ignores it)_

\--

He sorts the bodies and their pieces as well as he can. Friend from foe. Pack from enemy. Hunter from 'wolf. He stares at the pile of unidentifiable meat that is what's left of those who had torn his pack apart. He blinks once, twice.

And he drops to his knees screaming out his pain and grief for the whole world to hear.

It takes a moment before he can move but when his limbs finally unlock he crawls to where he laid his pack, whole to the best of his ability, and just curls there between Scott and Peter and cries.

Cries until he's hollow and there's nothing to cry anymore.

When he looks up, it's to the sight of a fox frozen in place while trying to drag away what looks like Kali's leg. He blinks and for a moment even forgets the pain because seriously, what the fuck?

Then he panics about the animals of the Preserve trying to eat his pack and frantically whips his head around only to realize they're all miraculously as untouched as when he put them back together again (and he's pretty sure he's lost a day or two).

He sits there covered in blood and surrounded by bodies for a good while staring into nothing before he pulls himself together. Again.

He builds a pyre. It's surprisingly easy when it seems the whole Preserve is helping him (or maybe it's his magic). In the end, it's not all that good-looking but it's big and will make do.

He carries the bodies over one by one, all the while whispering apologies and promises to make it all better, somehow.

He leaves Peter for last but when he goes to carry the mostly intact 'wolf his knees buckle under him and he wraps his arms around Peter's neck and cries tears he thought had already dried up.

"I promise I'll fix this. I promise I'll stop this.", he whispers into his 'wolf's neck _(cold, so cold)_ , "I'll change all of it." (he doesn't even realize he's rocking back and forth, just holds onto his mate's body as tight as he can)

"I promise. I promise. I promise." His voice breaks and he starts sobbing again.

He doesn't know how long he stays there kneeling on the ground. Finally, it's the caw of a crow and the flap of its wings that shakes him back into action.

He gives Peter one last squeeze and a kiss on his forehead before carrying him to lay beside his packmates.

He steps back from the pyre and with a breath the whole thing bursts into flames.

He stands vigil until the last of the fire dies down and whispers, "I wish I was with you" to be carried on the smoke of the dying embers.

He wipes the tears from his eyes and turns his back on the ashes of his pack.

***

His first stop after that, after saying goodbye and making his vow to the dead, is Deaton’s clinic where he only gets a spiel about the dangers of desperate plans and how he can have a future despite how things are _(deaton doesn’t get it, never really was part of a pack as intrinsically as he is… was (second and emissary and brother)._ From there he goes to an apartment downtown and breaks into a safe with the combination of a dead girl’s birthday. Then he closes himself in an empty house with all the esoteric, mystic and supernatural knowledge available to him.

He sleeps where he collapses, eats when he remembers and reads and studies and researches.

(he tries not to remember his dreams _(nightmares)_ but every waking moment he can see it happening again and again and, he thinks, something in him breaks somewhere along the line, and all of it follows him to the void)

Everything he reads says it’s impossible, that even if it could be done there’s no way to know when he’d end up. He reads and reads and grows more and more desperate, ever more frustrated.

Finally it all ends with him in a clearing with a massive tree stump and a couple inch sapling with barely a leaf to its name. He stares at the old, old entity of magic, at this ancient thing soaked in blood and pain but also _(it has to be, just **has to** )_ drenched in knowledge of the darkest and deepest type. He stands there for hours before he takes a deep breath and presses his palm next to the sapling almost at the middle of the stump and _wills_.

_-screams-_

_-please, no, please, I’ll do anything-_

_-laughter like wind in bells-_

_-a child’s giggling-_

_-hear us Rhiannon, mother of all moons-_

_-whispers of titans and golden dust and power-_

_-a swirling vortex of cold bluesilvernothing-_

_-bright lights covering the sky-_

He gasps back into reality.

_So, it can be done._

***

It takes him a while to sort through what the Nemeton shoved in his head. It's all impressions and half-faded memories if a tree can even have memories.

In the end, the ritual turns out to be fairly simple, it's everything else that's going to be a problem. He can't use Deaton and his connections, so he has to forge his own and that takes time. Time he doesn't have but needs to use if he wants the exact components the Nemeton showed him.

_(this can't fail. if this fails he might actually throw himself down from the top of a cliff or a building and finally get to be with his pack again.)_

***

He goes back to the clearing four moons later with the Blood Moon bright in the sky only because the Wolf Moon is far too far away. He’s careful of the bowl _(dwale, felonwort, monkshood)_ he places next to the already noticeably larger sapling. He takes a deep breath and lets it out and with it every possible doubt he has about this.

“Arianrhod, Lady of Time, grant me my passage. Lady of Retribution, grant me my chance. Lady of Full Moons, grant me my moonchildren.”

_it’s just as much about **will** as it is about the right words and the right offerings and **will**...that’s something he’s always had_

“Ghosts of Past, give me my passage. Spirits of Revenge, give me my chance. Wraiths of Lunatics, give me my moonchildren.”

_he wills and wills and **wills** with all the fury and desperation and grief and madness that’s been swirling inside him ever since his pack was taken_

**“Arianrhod, take me back.”**

The power that is unleashed shuts down the Beacon Hills power grid for days and leaves a druid with a heavy heart.

***

_...he swims in blackness and crashes through void and flies in nothing..._

***

When he wakes up, the first thing he realizes is the curiosity coming from the Nemeton. That throws him enough that he doesn’t at first notice the black wolf staring at him with bright red eyes.

He blinks at the sky and mutters “well, that’s new” soon followed by “it really worked”, blinks a couple more times and he’s laughing and crying before he can stop it because this feeling the Nemeton is giving him, this curiosity, it’s sleepy and something like _should know you_ and _why_ and surprisingly _newold friend_ , though friend is the wrong word, so far from the right one that he can’t even imagine what it could be _(and his mind runs away with ally, worshipper, magic, companion, not **alone** )._

It isn’t until he sits up that he notices the wolf. They stare at each other for a moment, the wolf clearly waiting for something, maybe submission, but he just stares straight into its eyes. He’s lost his family and his pack and he won’t submit to anyone, not anymore and if this unknown Alpha wants to rip his throat out for that it would have a fight on its hands (paws?) but instead of doing anything he’s used to seeing from Alphas, it just sits on its haunches and tilts its head as if puzzled by him.

He has no idea who the wolf might be. Peter could only turn into that monstrosity and Derek never showed him any form but the Beta one. He tilts his head and wonders _did he go further back than he meant to?_

The wolf huffs at him and turns into a woman. A beautiful older woman with dark hair and oh, _that’s_ where Derek got his cheekbones. Talia Hale, role model among Alphas and very much alive. “Well, fuck me. Note to self, never demand things from goddesses for they are vindictive and will grant your wish in excess.” As he muttered to himself Talia’s brow rose _(and jesus christ, derek was his mother’s son)_ and he smacked a hand across his mouth. The muttered “crap” was still probably audible to the ‘wolf.

“You do realize you’re in Hale territory, don’t you?”

He could only nod in response. He was sure his eyes were wide enough to show the whites around his irises.

“And that the power you used was felt by humans, never mind us of a more supernatural inclination?”

He shrugged because he wasn’t sure what could be felt by normal humans and what couldn’t. Talia just sighed at his answer before something in her face softened. “What’s your name, young one?”

At that something in him sparked and his back straightened and he knew his eyes were doing that eerie glowy thing they sometimes did when he reacted strongly. “I haven’t been young in years, Alpha Hale, and you can call me Stiles.”

Talia hummed but he noticed her tensing. “What are you doing here, Stiles?”

This time it was his turn to hum as he thought about that. If Talia was alive, that meant he could stop the fire and if he stopped the fire, the Alphas would never feel the need to stop by (right?) and the hunters would stay in whatever holes they lived in (hopefully) and he might even have a chance at peace or contentment, which all still left the tiny detail of him being able to watch over his lunatics even if they’d never know him _(and oh how that hurt to think)_ and judging by the frown on Talia’s face she’d smelt whatever spike of hurt or anxiety he’d let slip at the thought.

“I’m here to stop a future that has no Hales, a future that has my pack wiped out.”

***

Did Talia believe him? That was the most important question standing in the way of his plan succeeding until another thought piped up, _does she think I’m a threat?_ Well, he supposed a threat wouldn’t travel through time just to get to his quarry. Would it? But again, it came to Talia believing him. She might think he was part of a hostile pack or possibly even a Darach and that the time-travel was just a plausible but improbable thing for him to do to hide his unknown identity.

Well, fuck. What if she didn’t believe him?

***

When Talia came back from investigating the sudden magical surge, she was lost in thought and didn’t talk to anyone. She barely managed a feeble excuse to brush off her mate and that wasn't like her. She always shared everything with Seamus. Peter was immediately intrigued.

He could scent a stranger on her even if the smell was covered by magic that seemed to still crackle around Talia. _What had the stranger done? That amount of magic wasn't normal... on anyone._

Well, this called for some research... Starting with bugging Talia about it.

***

Holy shit. Holy. _Shit._ It had worked. It had actually worked and in the end even better than he had thought (he might giggle at that). Now... now he had the possibility to stop everything before it even happened and gods help anyone stupid enough to try and hurt the Hale pack.

First things first, though, he needs to get all this stuff in his head sorted and then he'll be able to protect all of them. Even if it's from afar.

So, the first thing he does... well, not _the_ first thing. The first thing after Alpha Hale, after getting a place to crash (and clothes) and some very much needed rest, is starting a grimoire. He writes down everything he remembers the Nemeton giving _(forcing on)_ him, everything about the ritual and everything else he can remember about the trance-like state he’d spent the last months _(years?)_ in.

He writes everything in one of his simpler codes.

Then he repeats the process on everything he can remember about every supernatural creepy-crawly he’s ever met, all the information he’s confirmed as true and accurate, and starts a bestiary.

When he’s finished he looks at the books _(notebooks really)_ and decides he has to hunt down some of those blank hard-backed books that Deaton had had his shelves filled with or maybe he’ll make his own, if he can’t find something that pleases him.

He ends up several dozens of miles out of town in this little second-hand shop/farm and leaves with six completely blank five hundred page books with leather covers.

Leather was the best for runework after all.

\--

And while he etches protection runes into the books’ covers he wills incomprehension on thieves into the pages themselves (of course, that doesn’t mean he won’t write all of it in code).

When he's finished, he sleeps for closer to twelve hours. When he rises (ironically enough, with the moon), he starts on the herb mixture he'll need for a distress-locating spell and starts figuring out how he'll get it on his lunatics.

***

The first time Peter saw him it was only a glimpse but he knew a predator when he saw one and he didn’t care what words of caution his sister gave, he was interested now and would find out the truth. If finding the truth included a little bit of stalking, well, it's not like Talia wouldn't expect it of him.

\---

"So," Peter's impressed by the lack of response the stranger gives to his sudden appearance "you're new in town, aren't you?"

The eyebrow raise he gets in return is definitely amused. "Are you going to offer to show me around next?" and Peter thought this had to be love because he hadn't heard that level of sarcasm from anyone but himself.

"Maybe, though, I'm pretty sure you already know everything worth knowing around here."

The stranger hums, off-handedly offering, "Stiles."

"Sorry?"

"My name's Stiles."

"Not your birth name, I hope."

Stiles laughs at that.

"Names have power, little Hale."

Peter raised his brow slightly. "And yet you know mine."

"Town as small as this with a pack like yours in it. It's not hard to figure out."

Peter leans closer and takes a discreet sniff of the man's scent and there it is. That overwhelming sense of lightning about to strike and old blood like it's sunken into his bones and - -

There's a fleeting feeling of something cold and clammy at the back of his neck and Stiles murmurs something Peter doesn't understand and he pulls back trying to make it seem like he'd gotten what he needed instead of the hasty retreat it actually is. He raises a brow at the druid.

"What spell did you just perform?" For the first time since Peter's started following him, Stiles seems surprised.

He tilts his head to the side seeming to consider his response and Peter's ready to listen for a lie in the answer.

"It's a locating spell. This way I can't lose my favourite 'wolves." Stiles says and winks with a mischievous smile on his lips.

"Your favourite 'wolves?" and Peter narrows his eyes in suspicion. Favourite could mean anything from favoured pets to possible packmates.

"M'hm. You, Derek, Cora, Laura, a couple others you don't know."

Stiles seems truthful and calm and not even the tiniest bit condescending, but Peter will make his own observations and act accordingly.

***

He had to remember this wasn’t the Peter he'd known (and loved). This man hadn’t stewed in his burning memories for six years, drowning in screaming pleas. This wasn’t the monster he’d known and fought against and later fought with. This man, or boy more like, was certain of his pack’s power and continued existence. More a playful pup than the ferocious wolf he knew he could become.

It was heartbreaking really to see the difference.

(stiles would protect it with his life)

***

How to stop the fire then? Now there was a question. Of course, Kate had done it before and Gerard had taught her, hadn't he... Should he look for evidence to give the Council? But then again, Gerard had connections in all the right, or wrong, places depending how you looked at it. He'd get at least himself free and clear, and then he'd weasel the name of his accuser from the Elders and that... That would lead him to the Hales, wouldn't it? Well, not directly, he wasn't stupid.

But neither was Gerard. The man would hear Northern California and see Beacon Hills and read Talia Hale and then where would he be? Running goddamn damage control and trying to get Gerard (and possibly kate) arrested by actual law enforcement before they managed to do anything.

God damn it all.

Well, that just left one other option. Get rid of the rotten branch of the Argent family.

He gave a long and frustrated sigh. Tracking down psychotic hunters, the exact thing he wanted to do with his life.

Fucking pain in the ass is what it was...

(and there was deucalion as well, wasn't there? but he wasn't a priority, not now, not with talia still around)

***

Peter stares at the man in the middle of the clearing. He blinks a couple of times to make sure he’s actually seeing things right because the man... He’s cooing at a tree stump (an impressive stump sure, but still... a tree stump. what?).

Peter can make out broken pieces of sentences and separated words like _good little beacon, aren’t you?_ and more of a muttered _have to hide you_ and _fucking toxins can’t find you_ closely followed by _shh, I won’t leave_.

When he stands up on straight legs after an hour or so, he doesn’t look at Peter but somehow he gets the feeling the other’s still talking to him.

“There’s a lot of death in this ground, did you know? A lot of pain and blood, and old things. Old and powerful and so very furious.” Stiles shivers as if in a cold breeze but the heat’s almost unheard of this time of year.

“Your sister doesn’t want you knowing where this is.” They’re both silent for a moment. Peter not acknowledging he’s there or that he has heard every word. “I disagree with that. Knowledge gained should be knowledge kept.” He’s quiet for a moment before humming along to the wind and Peter’s never realized how fascinating the sounds of wind were.

“Having said all that, I still won’t allow _anyone_ to find this place. All of that rot and decay started with selfish desires and people playing with things they don’t understand.”

Peter’s mind was whirring. What did he mean _should be_? Had someone tampered with his head? Had _Talia_ taken his memories? If she had, what memories were they for his sister to fear him having them? What was this place? What was so special about a tree stump? No matter how large of a stump it was.

“And I can promise you, little Hale, I will burn the world down before letting it happen again.”

Peter startled when he realized he was staring into a pair of pure white eyes _(druid eyes didn't change colour. not to his knowledge. so, what was he?)._

***

"Why in the Seven Circles should I do it? Why should I help that megalomaniacal psychopath with anything?"

Talia's eyes widened and her mouth opened a little in shock before she pulled The Respected Alpha™ around her like an armour. Her jaw clenched slightly and Stiles sighed. He really didn't have the time to out-stubborn a Hale.

"Maybe because he's a visionary. Maybe because he actually wants peace between hunters and packs. Maybe because -"

Stiles cut her off with, "Maybe I shouldn't because he's an Alpha who has lost his entire pack and now all that power is swirling inside him and he probably wants more of it? Maybe I shouldn't because he probably wants revenge? Maybe I shouldn't because he'll convince other Alphas to kill their packs and then kill those Alphas for their power when they become useless?"

He'd crossed his arms at some point and now had a brow raised in a perfect mirror of the Peter he had known.

Talia seemed speechless. Again.

After a moment of silence with him waiting for an answer, Talia cleared her throat. "Did you ever think of the possibility that most, if not all, of that was because of the blindness? Because everyone had betrayed him? That maybe he wanted revenge and would be content if he or someone else got it for him. Did you ever think that someone actually showing they care and helping if he just asked would make him better?"

He just stood there internally gaping at the Alpha.

He had said - -.

When he'd last seen - -.

_(- - sightless eyes and bloody body pieces strewn about among discarded shotguns and crossbows and deucalion standing opposite him and scott with that feral grin stretching his lips into something inhumane and redbloodmoon eyes slowly turning blue and - -)_

He takes a long, shaky breath and then lets it out slowly. Steadying when all he wanted to do was rip the world to pieces and burn it to the ground because his Scotty would never see it. Because his Peter would never touch him again. Because his pack was gone and he didn't belong in this whole and halesome (hah. such wit.) home he found himself in. Because, well, because there was too much pain and jagged edges in him.

He remembered the rationalization and the power in them both (remembers vividly and with vicious joy the Alpha's startled surprise cutting off the maniacal laughter) and willing the wind to cut Duke's head off and the roots to tear him to pieces.

But.

That insidious, poisonous doubt.

The rationale had to be based on something. The logic something Duke had turned over and over and around in his head and found complete or at least not lacking in any way. His eyes, his _sight_ would make him normal again, would make him stop _(or was it maybe the normalcy and past with a pack that still trusted him it represented?)_.

He sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

Shakes his head.

He wasn't actually considering this, was he?

_(but what if?)_

He practically growls at Talia, "I'll think about it."

***

"Alpha Hale, what a surprise."

"You think you could help me?"

"Why should I trust him?"

"Hmm, fine. But only if I get to meet him beforehand."

***

"If this doesn't change him from what I know, I'm putting him down like the mad dog he is."

"That's fine."

(he knows doubt in his abilities when he sees it)

***

"Doesn't look as bad as I thought." the boy mutters to himself and Deucalion wants to snarl _how my eyes being burned out of their sockets doesn't look bad?_ but he keeps his silence mostly because Talia's protectiveness is smothering him in promises of blood and a violent death if anything were to happen to the human.

"Now, I'm going to have to get a feel for the damage. This might sting a bit but... just try and keep those fangs to yourself and I won't have to do anything drastic." Deucalion is amused how the druid seems to imply he could do anything if Deucalion decided to attack. Healing and offense never went hand in hand.

He jerks a little in surprise when cold fingers touch his temples. There's a pause, for him to adjust or for the druid to gather what power he needs, Deucalion doesn't know or care. The first thing that changes is the low muttering, a steady stream of words with power inherent in them. A power that twists the words into something incomprehensible no matter how much Deucalion would love to know what spirits or gods the boy is invoking on his behalf.

Then something like static electricity sparking on his skin and he tenses with a growl rumbling in his chest. He can hear Talia shifting and readying to attack.

And lightning running through him and he surges forward roar already out before he's even thinking about it and - -

"SIT YOUR ASS DOWN!!!" the words snap into him and bind him with power and force him to obey.

He opens eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed and... _swirlingmoltenburning whitemercurysilver_... and he chokes on his breath. The boy is even younger looking than he thought.

"I'll need some time, probably a few months, to get together everything for a permanent cure."

The last thing he sees before everything fades back to void black is a soft smile curving the child's mouth and he thinks there won't be anything he can ever do to make up for getting his sight back. If it works.

***

"Yo, Talia, what's up?"

He was holding the phone between ear and shoulder while his hands were busy pinning pictures to the huge map of the US he'd been staring at for hours now.

_"Peter's been taken. We think it's witches and we keep losing the trail."_

He freezes for a moment.

Then, "where's the last place you can scent him?"

_"South of Devil's Lake."_

"Okay, I'll take care of it."

His magic starts reaching for Peter before he's even out the door and still reassuring Talia that he has everything under control and no, he won't need backup.

\---

There's something, some ward or illusion, in the way when he finally finds the trail and he growls in frustration. These witches are more intelligent than the norm. Probably newer to the black stuff that rots their minds until there's nothing but the next power boost and the hunger for it.

But intelligence won't do them any good if they don't have the power to back it up, not against an enraged spark and they've made him furious. Icy cold rage flowing through his veins and he pushes at the wards _(pushes and pushes and pushes and he knows he's close)._

Some 500 yards to his side and now he can see it.

_Gotcha._

The witches' magic shattering is a beautiful thing.

\---

The witches had needed a born 'wolf sharing the blood of an Alpha and for some reason, they'd chosen to come after one of the oldest packs on the west coast.

Coming to Beacon Hills had been their first mistake. Coming after the Hales was their second but the one that sealed their fate was taking Peter.

Soon, everyone would know the Hales were off limits.

\---

The clearing was lit by a half-moon and the witches were chanting and drawing runes on him. They hadn't actually hurt him yet but he was sure it was coming.

And oh, did it come...

When the leader cut him there was suddenly fire in his veins and lightning in his bones and he screamed and howled with the pain of it and the witches laughed. They'd told him they had scent-blocked the whole clearing and had set up a perimeter that would make anyone looking for him just slide their eyes away from the obvious in front of them. In essence, no help was coming _(he had to believe someone was coming. had to or he'd break into teeny-tiny pieces that no-one could put together again)._

He barely heard it in all the pain and the louder and louder chanting but... that was the sound of something snapping... and shattering.

And Stiles was walking into the clearing his arms bared and on his sides showing the soft underside _(and the tattoos, the scars, Peter didn't want to know)_. One of the witches actually cackled and said something about a willing sacrifice and another ritual.

The breeze was picking up in the clearing.

The youngest witch attacked Stiles, screaming with a knife raised. He raised his head and wiped his hand to the side. The witch went flying.

The crack of her spine was like a gunshot.

And the witches screamed in fury and attacked. All except the leader. She'd started chanting something different, and faster. Something that sounded far more sinister and that had sparks flying in the air. Sparks that had a _very_ concerning way of floating towards Peter.

One of them landed and he hissed at the burn.

The lead-witch erupted in flames.

He had just enough time to realize the danger was eliminated before Stiles was cutting the ropes holding him and running his hands over Peter's body muttering under his breath. It took him a moment more but when it registered that he was healing faster than he should have he could only look at Stiles with awe.

Offensive magic coupled with healing was something only the most powerful druids had.

"Be mine."

The words slip out of his mouth without his consent. Stiles' head whips up and his eyes are round with shock.

"I-I can't..." He hasn't heard Stiles ever stammer before.

\---

After Stiles has gotten him home safely and Talia is running her hands over him and scenting him and hugging him and starting the cycle all over again he thinks he hears "not yet" whispered softly.

He whipped his head around eyes unblinking on the place Stiles had stood. Stiles, though, had vanished already.

***

Emily watches the flames for long enough that she can hear sirens in the distance and leaves. She walks through the woods to her car and drives to the little, out of the way motel she's been staying in. It's when she looks into the mirror in her barely inhabitable room that Emily starts to crack and flake off like ashes on the wind. She rolls her shoulders and the friendly, slightly timid girl vanishes and Kate Argent smirks victoriously at her mirror image.

She gets into another car in the parking lot and starts driving. She'll get exactly 53 miles before her engine fails, her tire blows and her car rolls and rolls and rolls and she bleeds out there by the side of the road in the Middle of Nowhere, Alabama.

There'll be only one witness to her death and he just watches while mangling a Twizzler in his mouth and making sure she actually dies.

(the police have no idea what to make of the spiral drawn on the side of her car with her blood)

\---

Her father is livid when he finds out and instead of mourning and moving on like he should _(like his son does)_ , he digs up everything about everyone who's known to live in or frequent the area or anywhere within a 200 mile radius. In the end, he narrows the possible culprit down to two possibilities. One is a hunter from a family with a feud with the Argents centuries old, the other is a British Alpha who moved over to the States after his parents were killed by a French hunter family (unlikely, a 'wolf would've just torn her to pieces).

Before he can go after either or both, he runs into an emissary-in-training.

His body will be found in Montana burned to a crisp in an electric fire. _(The cause of ignition in the fire of the Hale residence was a faulty electric outlet. As such the fire was purely accidental.)_ It isn't until one of Chris Argent's oldest friends is in the area a couple months later and swings by the burned house that the spiral of vengeance is found carved in a blue elder in the backyard.

\---

The whole of the hunter world is rocked by these deaths.

Later, when it comes out that both had taken out several packs with absolutely no justification according to the Code, well, it doesn't make things better exactly but most families leave the deaths alone after that.

***

Peter saw the boards only once and even then only by accident but when the news of Kate and Gerard Argent dying in accidents far away from each other and Beacon Hills reaches the Hales, he connects the dots and the trail leads straight to Stiles.

Stiles who's been more relaxed lately, who appeared a couple weeks back after being gone for almost two months without any kind of explanation. Peter almost started searching for him during that time, would've started searching after the first week without Talia's assurances that Stiles was fine.

After that he'd started getting messages. Stupid little things about everyday life that told him frustratingly little about where Stiles was but assured him the magic-user was alive and well.

***

He asks because he thinks it's the right thing to do, even if he may strictly speaking have no need for it. He hums while gently mixing the chopped plants together and thinks "these will help him. these will heal him." _(and if he feels something soft and cold and maternal run through him and down his hands and into the mixture... well, that's something to be grateful for)._

He prepared the mixture at the Nemeton but he won't be leading anyone there ever again. So, he has to figure out another place to perform the healing and he thinks of life and health and clarity and healing and that's when the memory pops into his head.

There's a perfectly round clearing in the Preserve and he's not certain what kind of a blessing it has but he's never seen a dead plant in it. He needs to check it's still there and still feels like life but it should be the next best thing after the Nemeton.

\---

He leads the two Alphas to the clearing and orders Talia to stay at the tree line _(he'd much rather she wasn't even there but needs must)_ and gently leads Deucalion to the middle. Tells him to sit and that inner voice that didn't shut up even when he was drowning in research and misery, comments on having the Demon Wolf's fate in his hands. Possibly slightly hysterically but that's between them.

He smears the salve on the Alpha's eyelids and this close the 'wolf has to smell the aconite, burnt as it is, but he doesn't react beyond a slight snarl. He hums approval. Then, calm and slow, "This next part is the really finicky stage, so I'd appreciate if you could stay absolutely still for it. I know it'll probably feel uncomfortable and strange, but if I mess up the runes because you moved, we might have time for me to correct it but we might not and then you'll have to wait 'till next year to get your sight back. Okay?"

"Understood." Stiles hates the condescension in Duke's voice but he bites his tongue instead of calling this whole thing off.

He takes a deep breath, cracks his neck and cuts his palm open. A few drops fall into the bowl with the rest of the salve and he stirs it a bit, just enough to make it more of an ointment than a salve. The runes needed something to anchor them to him after all.

He picks up the, well, stick is the best word for it, that's made of blackthorn and nettle and it's what he's going to use to write the Futhark that'll concentrate the healing.

From the first stroke something starts to fog in his head and soon he's in a trance where everything around him pulses with life and magic and his words are power and plea and moonlight.

When he's finished with the runes, there's a woman made of shadows behind Deucalion and his hands on the 'wolf's temples are covered by shadowy fingers.

The woman speaks but he doesn't understand the words.

The meaning, though, comes through loud and clear.

**_Your healing of this warrior is blessed._ **

He thinks the woman smiles before everything disappears into darkness.

\---

When he comes to, it's to Talia hovering above him. The crease between her brows doesn't smooth out like he'd expected, now that he's awake again.

He turns his head to the side and gives a small smile at seeing Deucalion turning in a circle just taking in everything around him with an almost child-like awe.

"What happened?" Talia's sharp question cuts through his almost-joy for the blind Alpha, and yeah, he'd like to know that himself.

"It just took more mojo than I thought. Nothing for you to worry about." Talia frowns even harder but he knows she doesn't hear a lie, can't smell deception and he just smiles at her (slightly clueless, he has to admit but that'll just add that needed bit more that'll make her believe).

She opens her mouth to ask something else but for once Deucalion has good timing.

"I am grateful for your kindness, Warden of the Woods." His eyes widen a little at that. That is probably the oldest, most formal kind of thank you Duke could've given him, given the givens.

"I-I..." he stutters before pulling himself together and answering, "It was merely my duty, Warrior of the Wild."

Talia's mouth is actually hanging open the slightest bit. In all honesty she looks a lot like someone just smashed a tree branch to the back of her head (thank you, derek, for that imagery).

***

Talia had asked him to visit as soon as he had recuperated from the healing and that's how he found himself slouching in one of the chairs in her study. He wasn't really at full power yet but this had seemed like something the Alpha didn't want to postpone. What had surprised him was that Laura was there as well.

That last one wiped out the possibility of Duke wanting to send his gratitude _(again)_ the traditional way, through Stiles' Alpha (not that talia was but that wasn't something he'd share with anyone for years).

It took a while for Talia to order her thoughts but when she finally spoke, she cut straight to the chase. "I know druid healing. I've seen it before. What you performed on Deucalion wasn't it."

He heard Laura draw in a sharp breath in the background but he wasn't going to break eye contact with the obvious threat. Not now that she had labelled him an unknown once again.

He shrugged, "You assumed. I just didn't correct you."

***

He found Laura staring into nothing at the back porch. He just looked at her, at this innocent little girl who knew so little of the real world no matter what she thought. In the end, he sits next to her and keeps silent.

Finally, after long moments of silence, she speaks. "You said you're a spark but," and she fell silent for a long time, "I still don't get how that's different from a druid."

“Well, druids are common, so I don't really fault you there. They can take the magic surrounding them and twist it to whatever purposes they want with the proper tools.

“Me, I’m just a lowly spark like you said,” and his smile twists into something ugly “who has to use their imagination and will to force the world to do what I wish.” He winks at Laura who’s gaping at him like he’s an alien.

“You can force the world to do what you want? And you’re telling us not to be afraid of you?!”

He thought about that for a moment. “Druids, they’re afraid of us because we just need the will and vivid imagination. No powders, no chants, no pleads to the gods. That’s why your pack’s Emissary is so against me.” Of course, he didn’t mention the fact that Deaton knew he was from the future and somehow connected to the Nemeton, both facts alone would’ve made any magic user wary but together... and adding that he was a spark. Well, he could understand Deaton’s stand (he didn’t want to call it fear even if that was what it was).

“But Hales? You have nothing to fear from me.”

The thing no-one ever seemed to realize about sparks was that they needed to _possess_ the will to actually make things _happen_ and few of the already rare sparks ever had that. Mountain ash was easy, wolfsbane easier. They were inherently magical and more importantly existed already. But making something out of nothing? That was something only a few sparks in recorded history had been capable of. Of course, the recorded history of sparks and druids was questionable at best and nonexistent at worst.

\---

Behind the corner Peter stares wide-eyed and unseeing into the trees. That... All that power and Stiles' clearly unending loyalty to his family. He wanted that, more than before, more than he'd ever thought possible. But no, want was the wrong word. Need. Yes, he _needed_ it, all of it.

All of it focused on _him_.

***

_Scott was smiling and waxing poetic about Allison and he couldn’t help but smile back. Those two were really meant for each other._

_He blinked and he was in the dark and frozen in place._

_He blinked and he was laughing at Derek and Laura with Peter smirking at him (the bastard had provoked the two into the stupidest fight) and Talia smiling exasperated at the scene._

_He smiled and smiled and smiled and blinked and Kate had Derek hanging from a tree branch electric wires still attached to his torso and Talia was choking on wolfsbane on the ground and Laura was staring at him with vacant eyes **(again)** and there was shuffling from the edges of the clearing and he didn’t want to see but he couldn’t stop himself._

_Scott was limping towards him dragging one mutilated leg black blood dribbling from his mouth but that wasn’t what made him whine in distress **(and what could be worse, he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see, couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t)**._

_Peter, young and old and young and young and in some ways still so innocent, trapped in a circle of mountain ash and Kate’s corpse dousing him in gasoline and Gerard with a lighter and he **couldn’t** **move**._

_He screa_ med himself awake with the image of Peter burning and burning and burning scorched in his mind.

The whining was what broke through the _panicfear **protect**_ he was trapped in and when he could focus again it was to see Peter’s frightened eyes, his hands hovering in the air as if afraid of touching him and behind him Talia’s concern was a tangible thing.

He took a deep breath and gave a crooked smile at his future mate and pulled him in next to him starting to murmur a litany of “it’s okay, it’s fine, I’m fine”.

\---

Peter finds Stiles on the back porch once again. His scent is starting to settle and Peter thinks now might be the best time to actually get some answers. Now, before Stiles pulls all his walls back up again.

"You're not from this time, are you?" Stiles looks at him with a puzzled frown so, Peter explains. "You know some of us too well and some you don't know at all. You know things that no-one outside pack knows. Sometimes you look at Derek or me like we're supposed to treat you as pack and it tears at your heart that we don't. Mostly though, it's that you smell like the mourning wolf."

Stiles stares into nothing for a long while (peter thinks it might be the past) before taking a shuddering breath and squeezing his eyes closed. He chokes out, "My whole pack died."

The breath is punched out of him at those words. He can finally understand Stiles keeping his distance despite how it hurt him. Can understand Stiles smelling at times like strangling, drowning grief or fond melancholy or world-burning rage. And he'd wondered how Stiles could cycle through so many intense emotions in such rapid succession but oh god, does he understand now _(expect he doesn't, does he)._

"They died." and now the spark sounds detached from reality entirely. "They died down to the last pack-adjacent human and I couldn't live with that."

"So, you willed it to change?" He asks tentatively.

Stiles gives a hollow laugh. "No. I don't have that sort of power. At least not yet." and he pauses for a moment like he's pondering about that, "I searched everywhere. I searched for what might've been _years_. Finally... finally I asked the Nemeton, and it showed me. Told me what to do, who to plead with, what to offer. And it worked." and this time Stiles' laugh is a little hysterical, "It worked too well and now I'm stuck here, watching them grow up and be happy and never know me." (stiles had checked, little przemysław stilinski was hit by a truck a day before he showed up)

Peter's silenced by that, shocked at the thought of his pack never knowing him and having to watch them from the sidelines. A small whine slips out against his will. "Don't you," he starts hesitantly, "don't you want to get to know them?"

Stiles finally turns to look at him and his smile is broken glass and shattered dreams. "At least they're alive." Silence for a long moment. "That's enough, don't you think?"

Peter has nothing to say to that.

***

"Would you be mine?"

"I can't. No-"

"Not yet, you said. But would you?"

"Persistent little bastard. When you can come to me and say it's not just about power and intrigue."

"It's not!"

"Yes, it is and that's okay. It's just not something to build a relationship on. Give it time."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

***

Almost a year later Stiles is on the phone with Talia who's whining about having to deal with crotchety old traditionalists when something pricks his neck and everything goes black.

\--

Afterwards _(after the hunters and the torture. after the rescue and the healing. after peter and don't ever leave me.)_ all he remembers is blood and rage and howling but he dreams of pain and tears and threats. In between, he teeters from madness to giving up. But never chooses _(gives in)_.

He never was one for giving up.

**Author's Note:**

> Missed tags are appreciated and reviews are loved. :)
> 
> Tagged "Stiles Has Issues" mostly because I'm not sure if this is PTSD or grieving&dealing in a really extreme/bad way or if it's just denial and then him working through the five steps of grieving or like what? So, if you have any insight on that, I'd be grateful. :)
> 
> and I FUCKING DARE YOU TO ASK ME ABOUT THE MAGIC!!!! (except the witches. I've no idea how their magic works. :D) and kudos to those who spotted the discworld reference :D
> 
> (literal years of my life condensed into 8000ish words. fucking hell. I'm never doing this again... *flops on bed face first*)


End file.
